


Orlaya

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel learns a little and mostly plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orlaya

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Arwen teaching Tauriel about healing.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20766463#t20766463).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The sky is a bright blue with cream-coloured waves pouring slowly into one another, slipping down from the mountains to mingle in the music of the waterfall. When Arwen was little, she would often point to them and swirl her finger about, pretending the shapes that formed were at her artistic bidding. 

Now she merely watches, unmoving for the sounds of the minstrels and the idle chatter that flitters about the warm air. Even when she hears soft footsteps headed for her, she doesn’t stir from her bed of grass. She feels the presence beside her without needing to look. Long fingers cross her face, and a sprig of athelas, dotted in white flowers and plush green leaves, is pressed against her lips. She parts them in surprise, and it lets the stem push deeper, balanced on her tongue, the rest fitted in place as though blooming from her voice. 

Tauriel grins over her. The sun glitters wondrously through Tauriel’s fire-bright hair, dancing in her feral eyes, crinkling with joy. Arwen need only tilt her chin up, and Tauriel understands, ducking down to pluck it away again in her own mouth. She envelops one whole leaf, her plump lips brushing over Arwen’s around it, and she draws it away with gentle teeth and a smile to light the dark. As Tauriel drops the athelas into her waiting palm, she asks, “Teach me of this one.”

“Athelas,” Arwen murmurs fondly, her fingers lifting to play with the tiny white blossoms. There seems to be much west of the Greenwood that Tauriel’s never seen and wants to learn, but she gravitates most to the healing arts, and Arwen instructs mostly with herbs. She recounts, “You dry and crush it into warm water to rid evil from the body.” To her, it smells crisp and of nothing more than fresh air, but the way Tauriel inhales from it tells her that Tauriel’s scent is different, likely wild, exotic, natural but grand, like all of her. She came to Imladris wanting to _see more_ , but she gives as much as she takes in the realm of beauty. She’s clever, too, and learns quickly—she’ll be a healer of her own, soon enough. 

She could use a demonstration, though. Arwen rises on one elbow, leaning into the shape of Tauriel’s body, and picks a single petal from one flower. She sticks out her own tongue to place it, then lifts her hand to Tauriel’s cheek. Tauriel responds in kind, ducking down so that Arwen’s fingers slip back into her hair, and they share a chaste but open kiss, where Arwen pushes the petal from her mouth to Tauriel’s. Tauriel chews it once, crushing it as bid, though being uprooted will have to suffice for the drying. Arwen finds herself kissing Tauriel through it. There’s a fire in her too, just veiled under more grace, and it’s difficult for that not to rise under Tauriel’s touch. When she means to be soft, Tauriel awakens her, and they wind into heated, fervent kisses with wet tongues and reaching hands, Arwen now fisted in Tauriel’s rich locks and Tauriel holding her chin, keeping them together. 

Only when Tauriel shifts over her does Arwen pull back, lying in the grass again with her breath quickened and her skin alight, hyper-aware of everywhere it’s touched. Tauriel breathes life into her. She can feel the breeze and the warm earth and the greenery swaying tenderly about her, but mostly Tauriel’s hand laid innocently on her hip. She drags her hand back down Tauriel’s cheek to dip her fingers past Tauriel’s lips, and she retrieves the ball the petal’s become. Tauriel stifles a laugh, perhaps at the crudeness of it, but Arwen still places it against Tauriel’s collarbone, dragging it just beneath her tunic, across the top of her chest. Tauriel places her hand over Arwen’s, holding it there. 

“If you were injured,” Arwen muses, “you would be no longer.”

Tauriel sighs woefully, “My heart is broken in two, for you have taken the other half.” As she says it, she adjusts, slipping to lie down in the grass beside Arwen, who laughs in amusement. 

Arwen returns, “That cannot be healed so easily.”

“I am sure you will teach me how.”

With a glance back to the house, Arwen confirms they’re alone; Tauriel has a way of making her feel youthful and naughty. She’s never been particularly improper, nor will she ever be as strong-willed and rebellious as her lover, but she’s adventurous in her own spirit and finds herself drawn farther from propriety. She slips one hand along Tauriel’s neck, as though she’s going to go in for a kiss, but instead lunges suddenly over, rolling her entire body atop Tauriel’s. They’re flattened together in a heartbeat, though Tauriel tenses for a fraction of it, and Arwen thinks she would’ve been able to instantly overturn them if she had any wish to.

Instead, she merely rubs her nose affectionately against Arwen’s, and Arwen, grinning, purrs, “I will teach you how to knit bones themselves back together, if you will teach me to use a bow better than my brothers.” She tilts her head to kiss Tauriel before she gets her answer, unable to resist. The flower’s left no real taste, but Tauriel’s always pleasant. 

When they part, Tauriel asks playfully, “Will your brothers mind if I grind their sister into the dirt?”

Arwen doesn’t need to hazard a guess, because: “I fail to see how that would be any of their business.” Tauriel smiles in approval.

Then she rolls them over again, with more prowess than Arwen, already perched like a hunter with her knees bracketing Arwen’s legs but her feet hooked over Arwen’s ankles, while her hands pin down Arwen’s wrists. She rocks her lithe body once against Tauriel’s, her thicker warrior’s garb catching along Arwen’s silken robe. When she leaves Arwen’s right hand free, Arwen weaves her fingers back into Tauriel’s hair; her favourite place to hold onto. Tauriel retrieves the fallen athelas and presses it against Arwen’s cheek. Then she drags the athelas slowly down one side of Arwen’s body while her tongue traces the other side, and Arwen moans and arches in delight, vainly wondering of all the things she can teach as an excuse to have Tauriel stay.


End file.
